


Timshel

by DrowningAmongWords



Series: Timshel [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, FFH SPOILERS, endgame spoilers, ffh rewrite, post endgame rewrite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 00:42:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20519150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningAmongWords/pseuds/DrowningAmongWords
Summary: Clint Barton’s encounter with a young assassin and Tony Stark’s notes about nanotech he sold to a Russian woman, Nadia Morozov, led the new team of Avengers to Moscow, Russia a month after Tony’s sacrifice brought everyone back. Their plan was to rescue the girls from their captors, to bring them to safety. They make it away with just one. Black Widow 147. You don’t have a name. You don’t even recognize that what you’ve been doing is wrong. Can you be reintegrated into society? A 17 year old girl who hasn’t as much as seen the outdoors before attempts to navigate her life with abilities that only one other person can really understand, Peter Parker.





	1. prologue - Red Room Reimagined

1979, Red Room Facility, Moscow Russia

“Professor, it’s over, the spies are all dead or recruited to other agencies.”

“We must start again,” Professor Pchelintsov paces the floor of his laboratory as Nadia Morozov watches with a keen eye.

“We can’t just start at the same place, it didn’t work well enough during the first trials. Just look at me,” there is a hint of bitter resentfulness in Nadia’s voice.

“What about Romanov?” Pchelintsov pauses, “my greatest work?”

“Working for the KGB now sir. If we want someone to be the best of the best, better than Romanov, better than The Winter Soldier, we’re going to need to rethink our strategy.”

“I’m well aware, our tech is going to need upgrades as well. Line up 28 more girls, I’ll have the serum updated in a week.”

Nadia nods, lips pressed into a thin line as she walks away, back to her office to make some phone calls to the various orphanages they’ve used in the past.

“Zoya? It’s Nadia, how many females can we get aged 2 to 3?”

“For you, let me get a count,” Zoya says, there’s a pause as she checks her numbers, “17, can you get them by the end of the week?”

“Of course.”

Nadia hangs up, she’s not one for small talk, she’s getting what she needs, what she called for, and that’s it.

She dials the next number, a slightly smaller orphanage but an all girls one, rural, always sent as many as they could spare. 

“Tyana, it’s Nadia.”

“Nadia, how are you precious? How many do you need?”

Nadia rolls her eyes at the first question, skipping to the next, “11.”

“Send a car by 13:00 tomorrow.”

“Thank you Tyana.”

The next day Nadia pulls up to the orphanage, conveniently located on a deserted road outside of Moscow, her van makes her look suspicious but as soon as anyone sees a woman with a fake smile in the front seat they laugh it off. Harmless.

If only they knew. 

Tyana and the staff of the orphanage help bring the 11 girls to the van, where they all sit cramped in the back.

The next day she picks up the next set, a complete 28 girls, all wide eyed and vulnerable. Some of them cried which would’ve driven Nadia insane if she cared. But she didn’t, so she ushered them all into the living quarters and ignored their cries while she locked the door and made her way to the lab.

“How’s the serum coming along?”

“It’s coming, I think I’ve found a way to add my psychotechnology into the serum.”

“Is that going to work?” Nadia asks, skeptical.

“If it doesn’t, try again.”

Nadia nods and leaves him to work.

She does the bare minimum for the girls, giving them food and water and making sure they know where the bathroom was. Other than that, it was a waiting game for the serum.

Three weeks after the arrival of the girls Pchelintsov shows up in the living quarters with the serums on a cart and Nadia has the little girls line up while he injects them.

And then they wait.

A day goes by, no side effects. But no changes either. The next day before Nadia shuts the lights off in the living quarters she hears a child cough. Normally she would ignore it but she saw blood trickle out of the child’s mouth. Before she knew it the rest of the girls were coughing up blood.

“Pchelintsov!”

He comes running and she watches as the girls slowly stop coughing and slump to the ground.

“What should we do? What happened?”

“Start over.”

“All of them are dead.”

“And? I’ll take the psychotechnology out of the serum and we can start over. This time, find pregnant women.”

“Pregnant women?”

“Yes, we will inject the serum into the fetuses and move from there.”

“It will take longer to find 28 pregnant women with girls willing to do this.”

“Say you’ll pay them, I don’t care, you do your job, I’ll do mine.”

And so Nadia nodded, because going along with what Pchelintsov wanted was her best chance at survival and something more. So she disposed of the dead girls and got to work reaching out to women, mostly poor women in shelters or on the street. It took some time but they were able to recruit 28 mothers expecting girls.

1981, Red Room Facility, Moscow, Russia

April, 27th, 1981

Any day now, the serum has been injected into the fetuses. We just must wait. I think that’s the worst part about this, the waiting. The constant game of hoping something more will come when we continue to fail. At this point, it’s a shot in the dark whether it will work or not. But I must have faith in Pchelintsov, that he will create a serum that will work, and with my training, we can create a group of women strong enough to take on SHIELD and eventually the rest of the world. We’ve been questioned before about why women are chosen. Why not use men, like the Winter Soldier? It’s simple really. A girl can bat an eyelash and have a man wrapped around her finger. Nobody ever sees a woman as a threat. And a teenage girl? Forget it. Everyone views her as prey. But we’ll make them the fiercest predators out there.

April 31st, 1981

The mothers are dead, so are the little babies once growing in their stomachs. Each day Pchelintsov grows more exhausted and his ideas are crazier and crazier. Next he wants to adapt the serum to be fed through breast milk. This means we must recruit 28 healthy women, get them pregnant with girls, and then raise them to term. Once they are born, they will be fed a combination of both the serum and the breast milk. Pchelintsov says we must wait however, he doesn’t want to get on SHEILDs radar. We must lay low until he is positive the serum will work. For now, I will search for women that we can hold here until he is ready.

December 27th, 1984  
It has been over three years since our last experiment. Pchelintsov believes he has perfected the serum. The mothers are with child now, any day they should all be giving birth. They will have two weeks of a diet with just regular breast milk before the serum is introduced. Skeptical this will work.

January 3rd, 1985  
The woman have given birth, note to self, never do this again. If Pchelintsov suggests another trial with pregnant women, I’ll put a bullet between the old man’s eyes myself. I’m merely waiting until we no longer need the mothers, that way I can put a bullet in the back of their heads while they sleep. They will be my most satisfying kills.

February 1st, 1985  
The mothers are dead, I killed every single one of them while the babies cried in their cribs. Never have I been happier. The babies seem to be doing okay, no telling if they will stay that way.

March 4th, 1985  
All but one of the recruits are dead. Pchelintsov says to keep the other alive. I’m going to toss her in the incinerator myself after I finish this entry. A single recruit is pointless

March 5th, 1985  
Pchelintsov was not happy with my decision to kill the last recruit. I told him I did not care about his feelings, that if he creates a serum that doesn’t kill all of the recruits, there will be no reason for my methods.

June 27th, 1987  
Pchelintsov believes that the implantation of an egg fertilized with the serum will successfully create these super spies. He has been working on this serum for two years and believes he will need another two for it to be successful.

December 12th, 1988  
It’s harder to recruit people now, a lot of women don’t believe that their efforts will help save us from capitalist scum. I’ve gone to a more extreme method of recruitment. We don’t need to discuss it. I have 48 healthy women ready to be implanted in case a few are unsuccessful or give birth to boys. Pchelintsov says if any of them have boys I can kill them. He knows with each day I am not training the successor to Natalia, I get an itch. A dangerous itch that needs to be scratched before I kill him to tame it. 

October 31st, 1989

All Hallows’ Eve. Also the day that the women gave birth to girls. 30 of them. I killed the other 18 when we saw they were pregnant with boys. It was very satisfying. We will see how these girls develop within the next few months and kill the two weakest. I have permission to kill the mothers in four months. I think I get the most satisfaction out of killing people when they know it is coming. To see the look on their face when I shoot them, it is the best gift in the entire world. Pchelintsov makes me kill the mothers in their sleep however. ‘Haven’t they suffered enough?’ No. Because the world is full of people suffering, their daughters are going to suffer a much worse fate. Why spare them a moment of fear? Why spare me a moment of excitement?

February 12th, 1990

I killed the mothers. All but one while they were sleeping. One woke up and ran, face turning every so often to look back at me in horror. I laughed. She got to the door of the living quarters, locked of course, and pounded on the door. Her terrified ‘help me’ over and over sent a shiver down my spine. ‘Look at me’, I smiled as she turned around before putting a bullet between her eyes. The next few days I spent cleaning up the living quarters and getting rid of the bodies. It was exhausting work but who else would do it? Pchelintsov? He can hardly walk anymore. He’s a joke if there ever was one here.

April 17th, 1991  
The girls are making excellent strides, this is the boring part for me however. They are only a little over a year old. All I can do is teach them how to walk and talk and a few are starting to read. I long for the days when I can teach them how to hold a gun. A few more years. First they can become scholars in at least six languages before they start combat training.

September 12th, 1993  
They died, every single one of the girls. I’m disappointed but I cannot find it within me to be devastated. I do not believe I am capable of feeling such extreme emotions, never have I hit a low that I cannot come back from, never something that makes me so happy I smile. Anyways, Pchelintsov is conducting autopsy’s to try to identify why they died. So he can better the serum for the future. I am eager to hear what went wrong and how we can improve the serum for future use. I’m starting to think however, we should resort back to our previous ways. What’s the point of spending decades developing a serum when Natalia came out just fine with the serum we used in the past? Why go to all this trouble to improve very little? There’s something more that Pchelintsov wants. I must figure that out unless I want to be left with the ashes of the failed recruits.

September 18th, 1993  
The autopsies Pchelintsov conducted all say the same thing. The serum practically rotted the brainstem of each girl. It was not safe. There needs to be more research into how to inject the girls safely, so the serum doesn’t kill them before we can do anything with them. At this point I’m tempted to suggest we bring in an outside source to help with the serum. Pchelintsov is almost too old to be of any use. Every day that goes by he’s moving slower, taking longer to create serums that don’t work as they should. I’m waiting for a breakthrough but I doubt that will happen. 

August 3rd, 1994  
It’s been almost a year since the last failed test. We have brought in a few orphans in the past few months to test different versions of the serum on. They have all died. I’m getting tired of the silence. There’s no echo of gunshots or the shouting of recruits as they fight to the death. To reciting of words in various languages, drilling basic vocabulary until they are masters. All I want is to teach, and my skills are going to complete waste. I’m giving him a month before I put a bullet between his old beady eyes.

September 1st, 1994  
Yesterday Pchelintsov came running in here with no warning and I nearly shot him. He was very excited and I’ve never seen the old man smile like he did yesterday. Although his smile is quite gross, teeth missing and the rest all stained yellow. It was nice to see him excited about something. It was about time anyways. He says the way he’s been injecting the serum is the problem, it’s ancient. He needs updated technology. He’s going to attempt to design something himself. Another few months he says. While he does this, I need to find a new set of 28 girls, around the age of 2 and a half. Apparently at the age of 3, the brain has 80% of its adult volume. Something about that is important. If this fails, I will be making a call to Tony Stark, his tech wouldn’t fail us like Pchelintsov has time and time again. 

November 26th, 1995  
We have injected the girls using a high tech syringe developed by Pchelintsov. Our first step is intelligence training as we wait to see if the serum works. 

July 14th, 1996  
The recruits seem to be doing fine. I am proud of the work I have been able to instill in them these past few months. 19 of them are fluent in Russian, English, and Chinese. The rest are fluent in Russian and English. The next languages to conquer are French, Spanish, and Italian. All incredibly similar but intricate in their own ways. I believe the serum must have something to do with how quickly they are catching on. None have resisted either. Or tried to escape, not like they ever have a chance. Pchelintsov will begin his psychotechnology when they reach the age of 4. Most of their memories are implicit, according to Pchelintsov. This simply means that they are able to emotionally recollect memories. They can connect a feeling with an image but cannot recall why they feel this way. Explicit memory comes later, around the age of 7. And by then, the false memories must be properly put into their brains. He explains it a lot better than I can. But he will do exactly as he did with previous recruits. They will be told they are studying ballet at the Bolshoi theatre. This is the one area I trust Pchelintsov the most with. He creates the most vivid false memories, the recruits can recall entire stories and moments that never happened. They can recall the way their pointe shoes feel when they first put them on. They can recall the face of their friends and family (that don’t exist) in the audience of the theatre, cheering for them at their first recital. They can recall the dark red of their tutu and the soft material of the bodice that hugs their body as they dance in front of thousands of people. All false. All explicit memories they can ‘remember’ but never truly happened. 

January 8th, 1997  
All the recruits are fluent in Russian, English, Chinese, Arabic, French, Spanish and Italian. They are also proficient in calculus and are knowledgeable in the history of our enemies as well as our great communist state. At five years old, they begin their combat training next week. Pchelintsov has had individual sessions in which he has instilled the memories of ballet into the girls. He explained that he mimics long term potentiation to make the memories as believable as possible. Long term potentiation strengthens synapses over time. Through hours of training and watching videos of girls performing ballet, followed by elaborate story telling through hypnosis, he was able to strengthen the synapse between the videos, the stories, and actually believing they are real. Apparently this all occurs in the hippocampus. I don’t quite understand how it works, but he does an excellent job at it. I would watch him do it, in case something happened and he couldn’t continue. In case of an untimely death. The recruits would tell me about their day learning ballet as I handcuffed them to their beds at the end of the night. One girl is not learning as well as we would have liked, she’s also not as strong as the others, who every night dent their bed frames tugging at the handcuffs. A safety precaution we have used since before I showed up. Since the start of the Red Room. It was safest this way and let whoever was training them get sleep, they didn’t require someone monitoring them if they had no chance of escaping. Their nightmares fueled their strength and training. 

September 21st, 1997  
Dead. Every last one of them. It stung something deep inside of me as I cleaned up the mess from their dead bodies. The autopsies revealed nothing. I’m going to make a call to Tony Stark just as soon as I’m finished cleaning up their mess. 

September 23rd, 1997  
Tony Stark has agreed to help us create a better method to improve the injection of the serum. He believes that increasing the dosage while lowering to amount of serum and using a microchip implanted directly into their spinal cord, an area where the serum can travel through the nerves to muscle tissue as well as to the areas of the brain needed to control emotions is the best choice. He said it will take him a few years, he wants to look at the serum as well. Pchelintsov was upset with me when I told him. I don’t care. Tony Stark is arguably smarter than the batty old man anyways. It’s time Pchelintsov agrees to work with Tony, or I can kill him. It doesn’t matter to me either way. It will cost us, but that means nothing. Money means nothing. I can easily acquire the money he wants through a few assassinations. 

April 21st, 2001  
I have only heard from Tony Stark every so often. Once to send him the money, another time for him to tell me I need to find babies, no older than three months, as implanting the microchip as they are still growing is key to letting it work. He says he will be here in a month with the microchips. I’ve found recruits, one and a half months old, 28 of them. They’re staying at the orphanage until Stark arrives. I do not want to have to deal with 28 screaming girls on my own before they are tamed. 

June 10th, 2001  
Tony Stark gave us the microchips and a robot that can surgically implant them in each child. Today they were all implanted. The surgeries went flawlessly. He asked what we were doing it for, Pchelintsov laughed at him and said he would never tell. God I cannot wait to kill him. I think I will tomorrow night. I want it to be a brawl, a battle but I know I must do it swiftly in the night as to not alert him. I believe that Stark’s tech would work. I sent Stark with a thank you back to the capitalist hell he came from in which he will surely prosper. 

June 11th, 2001  
Pchelintsov Laboratory, Red Room Facility, Moscow, Russia

Nadia walked silently through the hall to Pchelintsov’s lab, pausing at the door, peering through the window to see the old man fast asleep at a lab bench.

She raised her gun with expert precision as she opened the door, slipping inside.

She curses when Pchelintsov wakes up, staring at her as she turns off the safety.

“You’ll never be as good as Romanova,” Pchelintsov says with a stupid laugh before its interrupted by a fit of coughs and the echoing of Nadia’s bullet piercing his heart.

She sighs and leave his body overnight, relaxing while the recruits cry, they were locked in the living quarters for the night, cribs preventing them from getting anywhere. 

She thought about what would happen if the great big Tony Stark’s invention didn’t work. She would be left with 28 more dead bodies. And nothing. Nowhere to start. Nowhere to go. This was all she had left. So she prayed to a higher being she didn’t believe in. She prayed that for once in her miserable life she could do something that might bring a spark of joy in her heart. 

The next few weeks were hell. She brought Zoya and Tyona in every other day to help her. To help her nurse the babies to health. Within months they were the size of a two year old and were able to walk and talk. 

Tony Stark’s serum was world’s better than Pchelintsov’s. 

As Nadia switched the cribs to beds, installing the handcuffs onto the metal slate of the headboard, she smiled. She smiled for the first time in what felt like forever while the recruits would stand in front of the classroom and recite different pages from classics in Russian, then English, then Chinese.

Nadia watches the recruit that made her the proudest, 147. 

You. You didn’t search for validation as you spoke like the other recruits. You spoke with a strong confidence in your voice, unwavering from language to language. 

The first time she taught the group of recruits how to fight, your stance was strong and your punches were packed with force. 

A year later you picked up a gun for the first time and you were unstoppable. 

Nadia was without a doubt sure you would be the one. The one to kill Natalia Romanova. To take down the last Black Widow from her old group. To allow Nadia to take the reign as Black Widow in every sense of the word. You had problems, defects, every good soldier did. And although your nightmares left you sleep deprived and with scars littering your wrists from pulling so hard on the handcuffs that the metal slats would bend, you never let it show. Never let a tear fall from your eyes, never smiled or laughed, never consciously showing that what you did had any affect on you.

The first time you ever killed someone, target practice, 8 years old. Every other girl cried as they struggled to shoot the person standing in front of them. You stared at the crying, pleading, begging man in front of you and shot him right between the eyes. You didn’t even blink. And maybe that’s because she spent so much time with you in room 11. Maybe because she had broken you down more than any girl, because she saw the most potential in you. At the end of the day, the other girls were there just in case something went wrong, in case you broke out of the brainwashing and decided to think for yourself. In case she needed to put a bullet between your eyes. And if Nadia felt things, really felt them, the thought would upset her. Instead it just left an odd sensation in her stomach as her face was as cold as the Russian winter.


	2. Timshel i - Room Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint Barton’s encounter with a young assassin and Tony Stark’s notes about nanotech he sold to a Russian woman, Nadia Morozov, led the new team of Avengers to Moscow, Russia a month after Tony’s sacrifice brought everyone back. Their plan was to rescue the girls from their captors, to bring them to safety. They make it away with just one. Black Widow 147. You don’t have a name. You don’t even recognize that what you’ve been doing is wrong. Can you be reintegrated into society? A 17 year old girl who hasn’t as much as seen the outdoors before attempts to navigate her life with abilities that only one other person can really understand, Peter Parker.

“147, 162 has accused you of stealing her rations, what do you have to say for yourself?”

You stare up at Nadia. You don’t blink, your facial expression doesn’t change as you answer her.

“She’s a liar.”

162 flinches at the harsh tap of Nadia’s heels against the ground but you’re unphased. 

“An honor match. Boxing ring. 18:00,” she stares straight ahead between you and 162. 

162’s mouth drops open and she stammers, “but I didn’t, I don’t,”

“Whoever is more honorable wins,” she walks between you too, her shoulders brushing against both of yours and 162 shivers. You’re both aware what an honor match entails. 

You let a smirk twitch past your lips before turning on your heel and following Nadia out of her office back to the sparring room.

You let your mind get lost as you hit the punching bag. Left, right, right. 

You knew 162 was lying. You wouldn’t do anything to break Nadia’s rules. 162 wanted to see you in trouble. Now she would pay. You knew what an honor match would lead to. You were prepared. With only 10 of you left and graduation day swiftly approaching, you wondered how many of you would make it.

You had three hours until the match. You were going to spend every second of it preparing. You knew 162 was weak, weaker than you, but you were not going to risk it. You were allowed to go into a fight confident but never cocky. You could never allow arrogance to be your downfall. It happened once, the scar above your left eyebrow and bullet wound in your thigh there to prove it.

***  
“You thought you were better than 151, now you have to face your consequences,” Nadia turns away on her heels as you struggle against the rope binding your hands to a hook on the ceiling, “you taunt her during your fight. Now it’s her turn.”

You know better than to say anything, than to let Nadia’s words get the better of you. You work on putting all of your focus on getting free from the ropes. You feel the burn radiating from your wrists up your arm as you pull the rope back and forth, hoping to cut through it using your sheer strength and the edge of the hook. The hook forced you onto your tiptoes, so your body swayed back and forth as you grunted with effort.

“151, go ahead, take your pick of weapon,” Nadia says nonchalantly before locking both you and 151 in the target room.

You watch as she looks at the table in front of her, an array of weapons enticing her. Knives, some dull, small, some larger and sharper. Guns, several to choose from, some with silencers, others would echo and reverberate against the walls as they were shot. A terrifying mace with daunting spikes. You redouble your efforts, feeling the rope start to give way.

As 151 picks up the small knife and draws it back you hear a small, “I’m sorry,” from her lips as the knife flies through the air. Your arms rip down from the ceiling, taking some of it with you as the knife grazes across your forehead, right above your brow. You crumble to the ground, tossing the rope to the side before wiping the blood that starts to trickle down your face. 

“Why’re you sorry?” You ask, tilting your head. 

“You’re my target,” she mumbles, picking up a gun as you charge towards her. In the split second that it pierced the skin of your thigh as you jump you’re running towards her, ignoring as numbness spreads through your thigh. 

“No,” you grunt, pushing her to the ground as her gun scatters to the side. One of your hands clutches the spot where the bullet stuck in your thigh, the other arm pressed against her neck, effectively cutting off her airway.

“Stop,” she chokes out.

Everything is red hot and your blood is dripping onto your eyelashes and cheek, blurring your vision before you’re being pulled back. When did Nadia unlock the door again? 

You were left in the room, blood pooling below your thigh. You got to work creating a tourniquet with a piece of your shirt, cutting off blood flow right above the wound. With how quickly you healed, you knew the bullet would need to be removed soon before newly healed skin covered over it.

You gritted your teeth as your thigh felt numb, grabbing one of the smaller knives from the table and grunting out in exertion as you carved the bullet out of your muscle. This made the wound considerably larger but you saw the blood slowly stop and the wound begin to heal over. You untied the tourniquet before collapsing on the ground, the world falling dark around you. 

***

Heat radiated off your body as you wiped sweat from your brow, finishing your five mile run on the treadmill as memories raced through your head.

“I have no doubt you’ll beat her,” you hear Nadia say as you slow to a walk.

“Why the special interest in me?” You ask, head tilted to the side as you turn to face Nadia. You mimic her stance, hands crossed over your chest and feet apart as you slow your breathing.

“You’re going to do great things,” a hint of a smile crosses her face before her lips are back to a thin cold line. 

“I’ll be at the boxing ring in five.”

She nods before sharply turning on her heels and leaving you alone. 

She would watch. Watch as you and 162 fought. A hint of smile ghosting her lips as you would without a doubt win.

You stretched before wiping your face and neck with a wet towel, making your way to the boxing room. 

162 sat nervously at the edge of the ring.

“Why?” You ask, eyes roaming her nervous figure as it shook.

“You stole my rations.”

“You know I didn’t,” your stance isn’t defensive, you did nothing wrong. Your hands naturally stayed clenched at your sides. 

You hear the clicking of Nadia’s heels against the floor and you turn, eyes to the ground facing her.

“Ladies,” Nadia interrupts, standing between you and 162. 

“I’m ready,” 162 stands up and moves into the ring.

You readjust your ponytail before joining her in the ring, standing at the opposite corner. 

“147?” Nadia asks and you turn your head sharply to look at the woman, standing with her arms crossed, black hair in a slicked back ponytail, eyes trained on you.

“Ready,” you shift into your starting stance, one leg slightly bent in front of the other, hands in fists, one covering the side of your face, the other a few inches in front of your chest. 

162 follows your movements and you stalk each other around the ring, she steps to her left, you step to your left. It was a dangerous game of cat and mouse. She’s never been here before. Never had to have an honor match. Never went head to head with another girl. If she had, you doubted she would be victorious. You’ve been here, two times before. Each time you won.

The first was when you were 10, 149 accused you of escaping your cuffs in the middle of the night. Nadia saw the footage and knew 149 was lying. She could have punished her, but she chose to initiate an honor match, to see you prove yourself. And prove yourself you did.

The second time was when you were 12 and 151 accused you of cheating on the physics exam. 

You didn’t, you never would, you were too good, too perfect to do that. Nadia knew this. Nevertheless she initiated an honor match between you and 151.

It ended much the way it ended with 149. You were the victor. You knew how to win, and win well. The first time you left with two black eyes, bruised ribs, and a broken arm. All healed within the next few days. 

The second time you managed to get out with a sprained wrist. 

This time you were determined to leave without so much as a scratch. 

Determined to be the cat in this dangerous game. You were patient and allowed 162 to strike first. You knew your best bet was to be on the defensive until time allows your instincts to take over. 

She dove forward, throwing her fist out which you expertly blocked, your fingers gripping her wrist and flipping her onto her back.

If it was a regular sparring match, you’d walk away, let her shake it off before she flips back up, fighting you again.

But this wasn’t any ordinary match. This was a fight to the death, the most honorable of matches. Nadia assured each girl that this was the only way to prove who was right in any disputes you may have encountered. Hours in room eleven that just made your memory hazy, unsure of what happened in the hours previous. 

So your other hand shot out to grip her neck, her head thudding back against the mat, your other hand stayed tight against her wrist.

Her hand, smaller and thinner than your own grasped your arm, the one which was wrapped firmly around her throat. 

She attempted to say something, to choke something out but your grip was firm and unmoving.

She scratched down your arm and a normal person would hiss in pain. But you weren’t normal, you were never normal. But that didn’t bother you. Mostly because you didn’t know what normal was.

Your hand tightened, forefinger pressing against her carotid artery, something you learned from your first fight that would easily kill a person if enough strength was applied. And you have more than enough strength. 

You didn’t show any emotion as the life slowly drained from 162’s eyes. It’s not as if you had much emotion to show either way. 

“Very good,” Nadia nods curtly, “come with me to room 11.”

She paid no attention to the lifeless body of 162 on the mat. She’d probably dispose of her later. You didn’t know where she would take them and you didn’t want to know. She handed you a towel and you wiped off the blood dripping down your arm, holding it there to steady the bleeding. It would no doubt heal within the next few hours, the scars would last longer however.

Three nail marks dug down your forearm, ending at your wrist. You didn’t wince at the pain, you hardly reacted, just held the towel to stop the bleeding as you followed Nadia to room 11. You hated room 11. It wasn’t like you would ever show that. You hated that when you left room 11 you had no remembrance of the day earlier, your head pounding, heart racing, a small twinkle of music the only reminder of where you were.

Nevertheless you listened to Nadia, because you always listened to Nadia. She knew what was best. 

She was waiting for you, standing by the screen as you sat down in the large wooden chair and dropped the towel to the ground. 

She stalked over to you, the cat now in your game of cat and mouse. You didn’t cower or slouch in your chair as she strapped your wrists with leather straps to the arms of the chair, legs to the legs of the chair. A leather strap tightened around your chest and you took one deep breath before Nadia turned the lights off, plunging you into darkness.

Music played. Much like that of a music box, a light twinkle in the background as a video of a girl played in front of you. She wore a beautiful dark red ballet tutu, dancing around on a huge stage, lights shining down on her. Everything about her was graceful, from the way her legs stood on pointe to the way she raised her arms above her head. 

“Who is that?” A muffled voice broke through the music and pierced your ear.

You tilted your head, you didn’t recognize the girl, unsure of who the voice wanted you to say.

You knew this answer was wrong, “I don’t know.”

“Who is that?” She asked again, the voice is louder and it cracks through the music playing in the background harder now.

“I,” you squint, staring at the girl as she moves across the screen, “I don’t know.”

“Who is that?” The voice shatters the music like glass, silence filling the void. Your eyes are blank as you attempt to look closer at the girl in front of you.

She stops and suddenly she’s right in front of the camera, face turned slightly, just like your own.

The face that’s staring back is you, a reflection of you, a double of you, something. Her eyes are wide and mirror the same gaze as yours, her mouth upturns into a smile and you attempt to mirror the movement, to be her double, but it doesn’t work. No more than a twitch of your lips crosses your face. 

“Me,” your voice wavers. 

“Who is that?” Nadia’s voice is softer as the girl runs away from the camera, which stalks her like a cat stalks its prey, like you stalked 162, like Nadia stalked you. An endless cycle of predator versus prey. 

It reminded you of the biology book you studied years ago, ecology and evolution. The bigger and stronger animal outruns, outlives, outsmarts the smaller and weaker animal.

Overtime the smaller animal must adapt and overcome or be slaughtered.

The girl on screen, you, was running backwards, the camera ever following her. A shrill and piercing scream broke the silence of the room and you watched yourself fall, the camera panning down to your stomach, the red lace stained a darker shade as blood seeped through the material.

“Me,” you respond, voice breaking.

You hear Nadia’s disappointed sigh before the lullaby music increases in volume, your eardrums vibrating as the clip replays. 

You try to blink away from the screen, to look towards Nadia. But you can’t, your focus is on the screen, the girl moving gracefully across the stage. 

Nadia’s heels begin to tap against the floor and she’s moving farther away from you, feet echoing against the music. 

“Wait!” You scream, eyes unblinking as Nadia’s footsteps freeze.

“Wait, please, it’s me. That’s me. Please,” you beg and half of you doesn’t realize how pathetic you sound, voice trembling.

The girl moves faster across the screen, moving closer and closer to the camera. A smile, innocent eyes. Now she’s moving back and her screams match your cries.

“Please,” your voice breaks, “it’s me.”

Bam.

She’s on the floor, blood darkening the tutu before trickling onto the floor. 

“It’s me,” you scream as you hear Nadia’s footsteps move farther and farther away.

Silence before the video starts over and the heavy thud of the door closing and locking drowns out your screams for a moment. 

Dancing, graceful. Close up smile and you can’t even attempt to smile to mimic the girl on the screen.

You, you, you.

She’s backing up, her screams echoing in the dense room. Falling, blood trickling onto the floor.

Was the video longer with each clip?

The body on the screen twitches as the blood pools beneath it. The hands push the body into a kneeling position before the video cuts out again.

“It’s me,” your voice is barely above a whisper now. You want Nadia to be right outside the door, listening to you, listening to what she’s created. But she isn’t, her heels tap against the cool linoleum of the hallway as she moves further and further away from room 11.

A dance. A smile. A scream. A pool of blood. The girl is up on her knees again, standing. She begins to dance again as the blood drips on the sleek wood floor below her. 

The video cuts.

“It’s me!” You shout again, your voice is broken and it doesn’t even sound like you as you repeat yourself, vocal cords running coarse as you scream over and over again.

“It’s me!”

The video plays and your eyes watch as the scene unfolds again. She’s dancing through a trail of her blood before the camera moves back, panning over the theatre, the huge stage, the backs of the seats, out the door, moving up to show the huge sign, bright lights flashing above a sign.

You blink and try to focus your eyes on what the sign says but the video cuts off.

“It’s me!”

And the video starts again. Your eyes strain to focus on the staticy image on the screen as the girl dances. And it’s like what you’re watching is taking place in slow motion, your mind is hazy as you start to imagine yourself doing those things. The girl on the screen isn’t just a girl on the screen anymore. She isn’t just a person wearing your face. You’re her. And it’s like a memory as you let your eyes slip shut you watch the scene unfold before you. But this time, this time you’re her. And what was the camera is now Nadia. A wide stance, arms crossed and watching as you danced for her. Her arm raised steadily, a sleek black gun aimed right at you. And you’re screaming, louder than you’ve ever screamed before as you run backwards.

The impact of the bullet throws you to the ground, there’s no pain associated with it, just the sensation of warm wet blood soaking your tutu, dripping to the ground.

“Get up,” Nadia would command and you’d push yourself up, blood dripping from the lace frills as you begin to dance again. It’s what she wants, what she’s always wanted. 

And you dance and dance until you feel light headed and the stage is covered in splatters of your blood. 

And she’s turning on her heels. Click, click, click. 

“Don’t go!” You scream but she’s walking down the aisle between the sea of red seats and you’re following her. You leap down from the stage and run, a sad limping jog out of the theatre. And you use all your strength to push the doors open. 

You’re panting and gasping as you are hit with a cold breeze of the outdoors and your eyes dart around, adjusting to the sunlight, searching for the slicked back ponytail of your mentor. She’s nowhere to be found. And as you turn around in defeat your eyes glance up to the sign, flashing lights. 

Bolshoi Theatre

“It’s me,” your voice is strong and sure as you scream yourself hoarse. 

“It’s me,” you repeat yourself over and over again as your eyes blink open, the screen now dark.

You don’t know how long you stay, muscles fighting against the bonds as you screamed. You tried to count the minutes, which turned into an hour, then another hour passed as you lost track, your mind hurtling back to the video, the memory. 

Blood, soaking the ground beneath you. 

Blood soaking your hands as you stood.

Drip, drip, drip, onto the floor.

“147,” it’s muffled and you struggle to pick up on it, you’re still lost deep in your subconscious.

“It’s me.”

“147.”

“It’s me,” your voice is barely above a whisper, you screamed so loud that you had very little of a voice left.

“147,” the voice is clear now as you’re pulled from the back of your mind. 

Nadia.

“It’s me.”

“I know,” her strong voice is soothing as she unstraps you from the chair. 

You blink as light floods the room and you stand up.

“It’s time for bed.”

You nod, standing up and following Nadia out of room 11. Even your nightmares were better than room 11. What happened earlier? Your mind races to piece together where you were before going to room 11. What you were doing. Your eyes wander to your arms, down by your sides, there’s what look like fresh scars down one arm, three long and jagged marks down to your wrist. You stare at it curiously as you stop in front of the living quarters, Nadia watching you carefully.

“Come on.”

“How did I get these?” You ask.

“You fell,” she explains and it doesn’t make sense. How you’d fall and get those marks, but you don’t question her. Because you shouldn’t have questioned it in the first place. 

She unlocks the door and you slip inside, grabbing your change of clothes from your bed before following Nadia to the showers. She locks the door and stands outside while you take your allotted five minute shower. Washing the blood off your arm, the sweat from your face and neck, quickly scrubbing down with soap and shivering under the cold stream before it’s cut off. You quickly dry and dress in your black sleep shorts and tank top. Each of you wore the same thing, to sleep, to fight, to train. Nadia explained it was easier that way. 

No identities, nothing other than what you looked like and the numbers you were given to discern the difference between each of you. The same cold calculated expression on each of your faces. The same fists hardened at your sides. You weren’t people, not in the traditional sense, you were weapons. 

You followed Nadia back to your bed, placing your hands on the metal slates of your headboard as she tightened the handcuffs around your wrists.

You watched as Nadia left. 

Click, click, click. 

The door shuts and locks and again you’re plunged into darkness. Your breathing is steady as you shut your eyes. You don’t want to sleep. Only bad things happened in your sleep. But you were exhausted, your mind was already telling you to just shut down. You don’t remember what happened but today was one of the longest days of your life. 

There were quite a few days as you looked back that you simply didn’t remember. Bits and pieces or simply the entire day missing. You had scars later those nights and you’d wonder where you’d gotten then but each time you squeezed your eyes shut and tried to remember all you got was the girl.

You.

Or was it?

Dancing, a red dress, hands stained red with her own blood. The Bolshoi theatre.

You didn’t understand what was so special about the Bolshoi theatre, what significance it held in your life, if any. But that didn’t matter, because you tried with everything in you to push that back into your subconscious and draw out the memories it attempted to cover.

It didn’t work before your mind pushed you into sleep. Before long your nightmares made you thrash and kick around on the bed. 

In your periphery, you notice a bright light but the thunder in the distance forced your head to whip around, body following. You fought to control the movement of your body but it was no use. You had no free will over the body within your subconscious. 

You were running backwards, away from the noise, the roar of the thunder. Each step you took shook the ground below you. Looking down, nothing, your feet lost their balance and you tripped, falling flat on your back, head bashing painfully against nothing. There was nothing below you, nothing above you, to either side of you. Nothing. Complete and utter darkness. 

The thunder rumbled and you opened your mouth to scream, to yell back at the thunder, to yell for help, anything. But nothing came out. You couldn’t speak as you saw another spark out of the corner of your eye. 

Lightning flashed, thick bright sparks zapping and creating horrifying monsters all around you. 

You knew what was coming next, it always came, every night since you could remember this scene played out in your subconscious.

You attempted to get up, you were about to rest your hands on the ground when you were stuck, tugging and pulling against an invisible force as the lightning approached you. Sending sparks of light that twinkled in your eyes as they danced around you. 

The threads of lightning wrapped around your body, tugging you off the ground and stealing the air from your lungs as an electric spark zapped through your body. You tried to scream out in pain, the worst pain you’ve ever felt, but it didn’t let you, a silver spark wrapping tight around your neck. Your legs fought and kicked underneath you until those too were wrapped with lightning.

Your body was screaming in pain, the lightning burning your skin as the thunder taunted you, rumbling around you, ringing in your ears as you twitched and fought to no avail against the lightning.

Then it let go, air rushed back into your lungs before you felt yourself falling. 

And you felt safe for an instant, because the ground was right there and you would land there and you would wake up, like normal.

But you didn’t. You kept falling, falling and falling, a hand stretched out, reaching back up for the lightning. You would rather be confined in it’s bonds than whatever this feeling was. Your stomach had dropped and your lungs were fighting to swallow air as you fell, wind rushing past your face, a shrill cry woke you up. 

You were drenched in sweat as you woke up to the silence and darkness of the living quarters. The other girls were fast asleep, still and unmoving against their handcuffs. You looked up to see your wrists were rubbed red and bleeding. You must’ve reenacted parts of your nightmare, causing the scars to open up and blood to trickle down your arms. The handcuffs were glinting under the whisper of light from the doorway, silver like the lightning that held you captive in your nightmares.

You took a deep breath and began to count the seconds, which turned into minutes, and then hours. You laid awake, sweat drying against your skin as the other girls slowly woke up. It was almost time for training. It was Tuesday, you would be in the boxing ring today. Something that sent a horrible shiver down your spine. After the boxing ring, each of you would spend time in room 11. And after yesterday, you wanted nothing to do with room 11. Not that you would fight it. You fought enough in your sleep last night, evident from the dried blood painting your arms. 

You wouldn’t have a chance to shower, those were only allowed at night, so you’d have to walk around all day with the dried blood on your arms, humiliated at how you could only control your emotions so well when you were awake, sleeping was another story entirely. 

The lights turned on and you blinked away your fear as the click click click of Nadia’s heels made you aware she was coming around and unlocking everyone’s handcuffs.

As they were uncuffed they stood in line for the bathroom one by one to change.

Nadia’s heels clicked by the head of your bed and your eyes watched as she unlocked your handcuffs.

“147, injure yourself in your sleep? Three miles before breakfast,” Nadia orders and you nod as you sit up, rubbing the indents in your wrists, starting to heal already over the dried blood from last night. 

You step into line to get changed into your workout clothing, a black t-shirt and black athletic shorts.

“Can’t stay still at night?” 149 whispers from behind you, her voice full of smugness as you shuffle forwards.

“Can’t help it,” you whisper back, voice monotone.

“We all can, you’re just weak,” 149 spits out as you’re up next to go to the bathroom. 

You take the harsh words, you deserve them after all, none of the other girls had nightmares. None of the other girls moved so much their wrists bled. You were different, you had the problem. 

You changed as quickly as possible in the two minutes you were given in the bathroom, spending the last 30 seconds scrubbing the blood off your arms, as much as you can before the water shuts off and the door is unlocked. 

Instead of following the other girls to the dining room you made your way to the gym, tightening your shoelaces before starting your laps.

Your mind raced as your feet moved you around the track. Eight laps was a mile, so you would need 24 laps to complete the three miles. If you didn’t finish before breakfast was over, you wouldn’t get your morning rations and would have to wait until night. The thought alone made your stomach grumble. You were used to not eating or eating very little, some days, the days when you were in room 11, you wouldn’t have your evening rations, and you would go to bed hungry. The aftermath of room 11 almost always ended up with you bending the metal slats of your bed, blood running down your arms, and then you’d have to run, and miss morning rations. The thought of not being able to eat again, even if it was just bland oatmeal motivated your movements. You ran the three miles faster than you ever have and Nadia raised an impressed eyebrow as you jogged into the dining room, slipping into your seat and eating as much of your oatmeal as you could before the time for breakfast was over. Your stomach was satisfied for now and you moved on to the boxing room, lining up on one side of the room while Nadia paired up the girls. You and 149 were last on the list, sparing against each other. 

Did she hear what the two of you were saying earlier? Is this why you were sparring against each other? Is this why you were last? Would this be another honor match? She wouldn’t do it in front of everyone would she? She could be sadistic but how cruel was she? Would she expose how girls would go missing every so often? The only girls who really knew what happened in honor matches were the ones who survived. And the only ones here who’ve made it out alive were you and 149. Maybe she was putting her two best recruits against each other, in front of everyone, to prove a point. Petty arguments had no place here. 

As you watched the other girls spare you thought back to all the times you had fought 149 in the past. You had won most of the them, she did get the best of you once, and you never let that go. 

“147 and 149, step into the ring,” Nadia said, arms crossed as she watched the both of you enter the ring, the other girls watching, excited to see the two of you fight again. Last time it was an epic fight, you broke her ankle, she cracked three of your ribs. She had flipped you onto your back and was seated on your ribs, forearm jammed against your windpipe. You were able to buck her off of you after quite a bit of struggle, flipping her over, your hand pressed against her throat, finger ready at the carotid artery. You only pulled away when Nadia’s voice, cool and collected rang out over the choked screams of 149, “enough.” You were taken to room 11 after that.

The twinkle of music which slowed your heartbeat. The monitor turning on. A girl, laying on the hardwood floor of the theatre in a red tutu sat up, blood that was pooled around her started to get smaller and smaller, trailing back up her sides, into the wound on her stomach.

“Who is that?” Nadia’s voice sharply cuts through the music and you tilt your head, twitching against the restraints. 

The camera pans to her face, blank, the furrow of eyebrows and cheekbones are all you can make out.

“I don’t know.” It pains you to say this because you know it isn’t what Nadia wants to hear. 

The camera pans back to the wound in the middle of the girl’s stomach, slowly closing, blood moving in the opposite direction as it should have, right back into her body. 

“Who is that?” 

“I don’t know.”

You watch as the video restarts, dark red blood pool turning back to a wooden floor, the body slowly rises from the floor. 

The music is different you notice, it’s playing backwards? 

You watch as she dances, it seems odd, her movement is still graceful but she’s moving in the opposite direction of what she normally would. 

“Who is that?”

“I don’t know.”

The video cuts before starting again.

Blood, a shiny hardwood floor, the graceful but backwards movement of the girl. The camera pans to her face as she stops suddenly, staring down at her stomach, drip, drip, drip. Blood dripped off the red lace of her tutu and onto the ground, echoing against the music. 

“Who is that?”

The girl is horrified as she clutches her stomach, face pained as she falls to the ground and blood begins to pool beneath her. The camera focuses on her face as it slowly forms, the same slope of a nose, shape of the ears, it’s you.

“Me.”

You didn’t remember the little sparring event for a year afterwards.

Right before you were about to step into the mat you saw 144 start to disappear before you. It looked like she was turning to dust. The other girls around you started to turn to dust and you spun quickly, looking for something from Nadia, but she was vanishing as well.

You turn to 149, the only girl left, eyes wide as she looks at you.

“What? What’s happening?’ You ask, voice soft.

She has no words, simply pointing to your hands, which you held up to your face. Eyes staring curiously as your own hands turned to dust.

And then everything went dark.


End file.
